


cordially yours

by Reishiin



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, anonymous hookup to fuckbuddies to friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10438764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reishiin/pseuds/Reishiin
Summary: This bar has menus made of heavy off-white paper, the numbers on them don’t have currency signs. Ryouga wouldn’t have minded at all somewhere closer to home, where he wouldn’t look totally out of place in tight jeans and scuffed shoes and a worn polyester jacket that is the nicest piece of casual clothing he owns, or feel nearly as guilty about a prospective one-night stand.(AU, courtship in reverse)





	1. just drive with the headlights out

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmw7CJBD3CE) and [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DsuAzpqd1vo)
> 
> Rating is for first two chapters only. Ryouga is 24, Vector is 23.

 

 

 

 

The heatwave hits Heartland City two days into May; at midday the air shimmers over the asphalt on the road, nobody goes outside, and the DJ on the radio advises keeping dogs home. Even at night the air is heavy and stifling, warmed by fluorescent lighting and cab tyres screeching round the street corners of Heartland City downtown.

Ryouga had been glad to duck indoors out of the heat. But he is also already sick of the glittering lights, the bartender's glittering smile as she glides past his seat and he repeats no, he doesn't need another drink, yes, he's waiting for somebody. Stares into the dark gold of his craft beer in its frosted-glass tumbler that probably costs more than he has in his wallet. Regrets going on the local anonymous messaging app, regrets responding to the one post that wasn't about semester final exams or a breakup or someone's late-night existential crisis; regrets exchanging photos, regrets agreeing to meet.

This bar has menus made of heavy off-white paper, the numbers on them don't have currency signs. Ryouga wouldn't have minded at all somewhere closer to home, where he wouldn't look totally out of place in tight jeans and scuffed shoes and a worn polyester jacket that is the nicest piece of casual clothing he owns, or feel nearly as guilty about a prospective one-night stand.

The heavy doors open again and a guy walks in, hands in pockets, bright hair falling out from under the raised hood of his jacket. He gives the bar a once-over and then slides into the empty seat next to Ryouga; greets the bartender and orders. He turns around and Ryouga recognizes his face from the photo. "You from—?"

"Yeah," Ryouga replies.

As the guy waits for his drink he pushes back his hood and shakes out his hair. He's lost the red-rimmed glasses, has different contacts in this time— violet, hardly distinguishable in the dim light— but his hair is the same brilliant orange as in the photo he'd sent, a phone-camera selfie snapped under harsh white light that accentuated the scowl and the bags under his eyes. He's wearing the same dark jacket with silver buckles along the lapels and sleeves, the cord of a pendant visible against the open collar. Pants that look painted on, a silver chain running from one belt loop to the opposite pocket.

He catches Ryouga staring, and smirks.

The bartender comes back with something dark in a short glass. The guy takes one sip, makes a face, and sets it back on the counter.

"Not to your liking?" Ryouga ventures.

"Mm." Noncommittal.

On a screen behind the counter a basketball game is going on; Ryouga doesn't know who's playing. He stares at the movement without really seeing it, lets the alcohol take hold and the sound of music and background conversation drift over him. Tries to make small talk, but they're strangers and it runs out quickly.

"Shitty weather, isn't it."

"Oh? I think it's fine."

The bastard. Ryouga pulls again at the collar of his jacket and wonders how that guy can deck himself out in leather and not be bothered by the heat at all.

Several minutes of watching the game later the guy leans close, voice pitched low. “It's loud in here, isn’t it?”

It's not. Ryouga nods.  “Outside?”

The guy inclines his head in assent; leaves a neatly folded bill beneath his glass and steps off his chair. Smiles at Ryouga for the first time that night, prettily enough but it doesn't reach his eyes, and his fingers are cold when he takes Ryouga's hand. He maneuvers them both down the long bright corridor that leads to the washrooms; the door at the other end opens into the warm still night air. A small slanting alley between this building and the next, the chainlink fence of the dead end out of sight of the main road.

The door clicks shut, doesn't lock. The guy pins Ryouga to the rough brick wall, on his toes so they're of a height; and pushes their lips together without the pretense of gentleness. Runs his teeth across Ryouga's lower lip hard enough to break skin and Ryouga kisses back just as harshly, tastes metal alongside the lingering sweetness of that guy's last drink.

He pushes aside the lapel of Ryouga's jacket; presses his thumb into the collarbone hard enough to bruise as his fingers slide under the fabric and across the bare skin of Ryouga's shoulder. Lets his free hand wander downward to palm Ryouga’s crotch through the rough fabric of his jeans, the contact thrilling up Ryouga's spine. Ryouga reaches to return the favour but the guy shakes his head, pushes Ryouga's hands away so Ryouga settles for sliding hands under the hem of the guy's jacket to pull the back of his undershirt untucked, reach beneath the glossy fabric to settle at the dip of his waist.

He undoes the fly of Ryouga’s jeans and tugs aside the heavy material; reaches into the waistband of Ryouga’s underwear, and Ryouga's breath hitches as deft fingers meet sensitive flesh. He's already half-hard, belly tight with want, and he keens softly as the guy lets go to step back and spit into his hands.

He spins Ryouga round and jerks him, first slowly, then with force, slick sweet friction sending jolts up Ryouga's spine; Ryouga braces himself against the wall, rough brick against his forehead, scraping the heels of his hands raw. He lets his eyes fall shut, pulls deep shuddering breaths from the heavy air. Focuses on sensation —warmth, pressure, friction — and comes, hard, into the guy's waiting hands.

When he can breathe properly again he reaches for the zipper of the guy's pants and the guy lets him, this time. The fastenings come apart easily and Ryouga palms the hot flesh straining against the fabric of his underwear, then pushes the material aside. Drops to his knees and licks wetly from base to tip, a mechanical action; wraps his lips around the head and tongues the slit, eliciting a gasp from the man, before getting to his feet again. Pushes the guy up against the wall and uses one hand to finish the job, the other arm tightening around the guy's waist to hold his body in place against Ryouga's own. A soft whine escapes as the guy's hips jerk up into Ryouga's hands, and Ryouga smirks and goes faster. The guy comes biting his lip, like he's trying not to give Ryouga the satisfaction, but he crumples against the wall as Ryouga wipes off his hands and Ryouga considers that a win.

Ryouga slumps against the wall himself to catch his breath. In the distance, a series of honks, the screeching of tyres. Ryouga turns his head in the general direction of the commotion. "That intersection is shitty."

"I wouldn't know. I take the train," the guy murmurs, voice carrying in the enclosed area.

He's back on his feet, still flushed from the exertion, and now he steps back into Ryouga's space, close enough to kiss or close enough to hit. Ryouga doesn't have time to decide which because he reaches up and pulls the lapel of Ryouga's jacket back in place, fingers skimming Ryouga's bruised collarbone through the thin fabric; exhales, warm air ghosting over Ryouga's lips. Then he steps away and puts the hood of his jacket back over his head; stuffs his hands into the pockets of his too-tight pants and walks away, the heels of his boots clicking against the pavement, in the direction of the well-lit street on the other end of the slanting back alley.

What the hell.

Ryouga watches him turn the corner onto the street and out of sight, and then he pulls himself together and opens the back door again, heads for the first washroom; the room is cold and white and bright and clean, smells like floral air freshener and disinfectant. He washes his own hands, then splashes his face; the runoff soaks unceremoniously into his shirt and leaves dark patches on his jacket, but he doesn't really care. Stares at the mirror into his own red-rimmed eyes with sudden revulsion, runs his fingers through mussed hair, and then pulls himself together and heads back out into the heat of the city night.

The ten-stop train ride back feels like defeat. This late at night, the carriages are almost empty. A girl dozing in the seat by the door, hands folded in her lap; a man in a business suit leaning against the plexiglas divider, talking quietly into a mouthpiece. Ryouga stands by the door gripping the metal handrail; adjusts his jacket and winces as he hits the tender spot atop his collarbone. He's still thinking about that guy, about his dyed hair and chain jewelry and colored contacts; the way his eyes narrowed beneath the fall of his hair just before he turned and left.

Whatever situation makes someone like that go to an upscale bar on a Thursday night and jerk off a stranger in the back alley—it can't be good.

Maybe that is something they have in common.

Ryouga doesn’t even know his name.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. take what you want

 

 

 

 _hey_ , scrolls across Ryouga's screen, followed by something dirty he doesn't read. _you free thursday?_

Second Tuesday of June, the heatwave has not abated. The midday air hangs in a shimmering haze over the asphalt outside the gyudon store packed with office workers on their lunch break. Ryouga puts his phone back face-down on the table as he answers a question from his coworker across from him; he already misses the air-conditioning in the office building, does not look forward to the two-block walk back.

That evening he messages back, _same time same place?_

On Thursday it rains, and Ryouga puts in headphones to drown out the sound of it against the glass windows next to his cubicle, and almost misses the sun. After work Ryouga changes clothes and shoes in the train station bathrooms, walks the two blocks to the place from last time with the rain from the puddles in the sidewalk sloshing miserably over his boots.

This time that guy is already there, nursing a short glass tumbler; different jacket, different pants, same obnoxious hair. Ryouga walks over, drops his rainjacket over the back of the bar stool next to him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” the guy replies as Ryouga sits down. “Come here often?”

 _This place was your choice in the first place._ “No,” Ryouga answers, then places his drink order. “You?”

“Occasionally.” He turns around to face Ryouga fully, eyes narrowing a fraction in the sharp light from the lamp overhead; no contacts this time, his eyes are ordinary brown. “I’m Vector.”

Ryouga nods. “Nasch.”

“Like the mathematician?”

“No. N-A-S-C-H, the c is silent.”

“Then why is it there?”

It’s bait, and Ryouga has to fight with himself to not take it. Waves it off and comments instead on the rabbit charm dangling from the side of Vector’s phone case, and they end up talking about the merits and drawbacks of employing elderly workers to go round shopping malls selling trinkets to families on weekend lunch outings.

“Sympathy play,” Vector concludes. Ryouga glances at the charm again and points out it seems to have worked well so far, and Vector laughs and agrees.

He seems to like his drink order better this time around; takes small sips out of the cocktail straw through pursed lips, studies the movement of the ice in the glass. Ryouga watches him do it, and Vector catches him looking and smirks.

Ryouga complains about the rain and Vector agrees with his assessment of the weather this time; asks him where he got his raincoat, and Ryouga answers and returns the compliment.

"It's from middle school dueling club," Vector says, and pulls the sleeve over the chair to show Ryouga the insignia on the back, rainwater spilling off the nylon into the carpet below. "But it still fits and isn't worn out and it's weatherproof, so why not."

Ryouga studies the insignia. He recognizes the crest— one of Heartland’s better middle schools (though the same cannot be said of their dueling club). “You play Duel Monsters?"

"Not in like ten years,” Vector replies. “You play?"

Thomas Arclight, the YCS, and everything that came after. "Also not in a long time. What deck?"

"Mm. Umbrals. Gorgonics, a bit."

If Vector runs a shitty archetype, he is either a shitty duelist to match, or else a damn good one.

Rio used to play Gorgonics too; Ryouga still has her cards back at his apartment. He tells Vector this, then pauses, suddenly dizzy from the alcohol and the weight of Vector's attention on him. "Care for a game? My place."

Vector's eyes are searching. "Why not," he breathes.

Outside it is still raining, the summer night air warm and heavy from humidity and the exhaust of cars passing by. Vector stares into the road, hands in his pockets and chin tucked into the ruffles over his lapels; Ryouga tugs up his collar against the rain, flags a passing cab and gives the driver his address as they get in the back.

The interior of the car is quiet, strains of classical music drifting from the radio. Ryouga studies the reflections of the driver's face in the windshield glass, the reflections of Vector's face in the window as he sends a text and then stares out into the rain. He has let Ryouga take his weight, nestled his head into Ryouga’s shoulder; lets his hands wander, and as he shifts against Ryouga’s side something coils hot and sharp in Ryouga’s belly.

On the two flights of stairs to the apartment Ryouga fumbles with his keys; hey barely make it through the door before Vector is kissing him again, insistent and vicious, his fingers catching painfully in Ryouga’s hair. He kicks the door shut and then slams Ryouga into the wall; the momentum sends Ryouga's teeth straight into his upper lip and Ryouga tastes metal, knows he'll feel it in the morning. He shoves Vector away just long enough to bite out, "What the _hell_ is your damage—"

"— wouldn't you like to know," Vector murmurs, breath hot against Ryouga’s cheek. Slants his mouth over Ryouga’s again, gentler this time and Ryouga lets his eyes slip half-closed, runs his fingers down the side of Vector’s face and neck to press into the dip of Vector’s throat. Satisfaction runs through him as Vector gasps into his mouth and arches into the touch.

He pushes the lapel of Vector’s jacket aside and bends to suck at the exposed skin; runs his hand down Vector’s side past the dip of Vector’s waist to palm his crotch through the stiff glossy fabric of his pants, and Vector makes a sound low in his throat and rocks his hips up into Ryouga’s hand. The chain running through Vector’s belt loops is cold against Ryouga’s palm and Ryouga reaches past it to undo the front of Vector’s pants. Vector’s dick is already half-hard, flesh heavy and straining beneath Ryouga’s hand. “We should move.“

Vector nods and disentangles himself from Ryouga; sheds jacket and then pants with economical movements, tosses them on Ryouga’s coffee table and then settles on the couch of his own accord as Ryouga follows suit. Shifts his weight until he can be certain he will not fall, and then he grabs the front of Ryouga’s undershirt and drags Ryouga into another bruising kiss.

Ryouga reaches for the discarded pile of his own trousers, fumbles through pockets until he finds the lube. Twists the cap open and slicks his fingers, viscous liquid still warm from body heat; shoves a cushion beneath Vector’s lower back for leverage, runs his hand up the soft inside of Vector’s thigh until he finds Vector’s entrance and shoves his fingers in. Sees Vector’s spine curve, sweat sheening his lower back as he folds nearly in half to accommodate, and wonders if that hurts.

Ryouga works Vector open and then pulls his fingers out, the cool of the air startling after Vector’s heat. He reaches to free own dick from the confines of his underwear, grip slick with lube and his own precome as he aligns his dick with Vector’s entrance and pushes in. Doesn’t miss Vector’s eyes going wide or the soft cry that escapes him. “You alright?“

The way pain twists Vector’s face, he likely isn’t, but he also doesn’t say no. "Just move," Vector grits out, and as Ryouga complies and pushes deeper he notes with satisfaction that Vector’s fingers tighten in the couch coverings. Ryouga curls one hand around Vector’s shoulder to steady them both, braces the other on the couch to support his weight, and then angles his hips downward and pushes. Vector’s walls are tight and hot around him as he cants his hips to meet Ryouga’s thrusts, and it is not long at all before Ryouga comes, Vector’s shoulders solid and sharp under his hands.

He pulls his softening dick free, takes in the obscene sight of Vector laid open beneath him as he slicks his fingers again and reaches down to help Vector finish. Vector is already halfway there, dick hot and heavy beneath Ryouga’s hand, and as Ryouga strokes him hard he comes apart, Ryouga’s fake name slipping through gritted teeth like he’s trying and failing to keep it in. Ryouga holds him through it; memorizes Vector’s face, the sound of Vector saying his name.

The fog of lust is beginning to clear from Ryouga’s head and he is suddenly aware of the chafe of rough fabric against his skin; wonders how Vector stands it. He is not quite sure what made him think it was a good idea to bring someone back to his shitty shoebox apartment and fuck him over the couch when he knows full well the coverings haven’t been washed in months—

(— what makes someone like Vector follow a stranger back to a shitty shoebox apartment and get fucked over a couch where the coverings haven’t been washed in months.)

Beneath him, Vector’s breathing has evened. He looks up at Ryouga, eyes dark and searching in the half-light of the apartment, and it makes Ryouga feel somehow seen through.

There is no ‘what’. There is just the air cold against his skin and Vector’s pulse still rabbit-fast under his hands; the suddenly sickening slide of lube and come and sweat under his fingertips as they shift against Vector’s skin, and the fluid pooling against a spreading stain on the couch.

Vector shifts, and with effort pulls himself free of Ryouga’s grip. “I’ll go clean up,” he says as he gets unsteadily to his feet.

Ryouga waves him in the direction of the bathroom. “That way.”

Over the sound of running water Ryouga dresses, washes his own hands in the kitchen sink; strips his couch cushions with mechanical efficiency and launches the coverings at the laundry basket. Some minutes later Vector opens the bathroom; runs still-damp fingers through his hair and picks up his jacket from the coffee table. “I should go,” he says, more to himself than to Ryouga, and crosses to the doorway where his boots lie discarded.

Ryouga watches Vector tie his shoes, wonders if he shuffles cards with the same deftness. Looks at the clock: 11.47 p.m. Outside the window a sound of thunder, muted through the glass panes of the living room windows. It’s still raining out. “You can stay the night," Ryouga says quietly. "If you want."

Vector pauses in the middle of a butterfly knot. Thinks about something, then stands up and drops his wallet and phone back on Ryouga’s counter. “Okay.” His eyes don't leave Ryouga's face.

Ryouga nods. Goes into his room and finds an old pair of pajamas and a spare towel and toothbrush; returns to find Vector perched on the couch, on his phone, face pale and intent in the light from the screen. He takes the pile and locks himself in the bathroom again to change, and while he is gone Ryouga picks up everything valuable in his room— it’s not much— and shoves them in a cabinet and turns the key in the lock.

When Vector emerges he heads straight for the couch and starts rearranging the cushions.

"Eh, don't sleep on the sofa," Ryouga says.

“Then what?”

"I have a double bed, there’s room.” Then, because Vector is looking at him strangely, “What?”

"Didn't think you were raised well enough to care,” Vector shoots back. There's no bite to it. He picks himself off the couch, shark-patterned pajamas and all, and follows Ryouga into the bedroom. Glances around the room and then perches on the edge of the bed closest the door. When Ryouga doesn’t move, he gets under the covers and curls up close to the edge, facing away.

Ryouga turns out the light. then goes to clean up himself. When he returns he gets in on the other side of the bed, unsure if Vector has fallen asleep so he makes as little disturbance as he can. He is not used to sleeping on this side but he is also tired enough it will not matter.

 

 

When Ryouga’s alarm sounds in the morning —7:02 a.m., sunlight just starting to stream through the blinds over the window —Vector is already gone, his side of the bed neatly made, Ryouga’s loaned linens folded in a pile at the foot. There is no sign he was ever there, aside from a post-it stuck to Ryouga's desk with a phone number and a drawing of a rabbit on it.

Ryouga drops the sticky back on his desk and picks up his phone. _Did you get home all right_

As he washes up he hears his phone buzz, goes back outside and reads, _yes._

 

 

 


	3. I really really really wanna know you

 

 

 

Somewhere along the way Vector texted Ryouga a different address with the note _I don’t know about you but I don’t need fancy cocktail straws to get shitfaced and hate life,_ and Google turned up a sports bar less downtown, less expensive and two thirds the distance to Ryouga's apartment. Now alternate Wednesdays he texts Ryouga stupid things—pickup lines, or insults to the weather, or dirty limericks an eleven-year-old might have written —and Ryouga ignores it all and texts back the straightforward yes if his next evening is free, no otherwise.

Thursdays are game nights at the bar; Ryouga is decent with darts and Vector is terrible, at pool it is the other way round, and board games and card games are a total wash for them both. ( _Pro duelist, eh_ , Vector says under his breath, and Ryouga kicks him under the chair.) At the end of the night when they have both paid for their respective drinks, they step outside the bar to the junction in the road where their ways home go in different directions, and Vector either follows Ryouga, or doesn't. (Always Ryouga's place, never Vector's. He makes the excuse that he shares his flat with someone so it’s inconvenient; Ryouga half believes it, half doesn't.)

An unexpected side effect: Ryouga's apartment is cleaner than it has been in a long, long time. Not out of care for what Vector thinks of him — it's not like Vector's opinion of him can possibly get much worse— it is just more convenient when there aren't piles of dirty clothing or empty shopping bags to accidentally step in when both of them are otherwise occupied.

 

* * *

 

Ryouga brings his and Rio's old decks to poker night, and he and Vector duel twice while waiting their turns at the table. Vector doesn't know Rio's cards, but he learns fast.

"Not bad,” Ryouga says. “For someone from Heartland."

The backhandedness of it makes Vector smile. "I didn't learn there, thank god."

"Then where? Card shops?"

"Rintama," Vector says. "Down the road from Heartland. The club was student-run so nobody minded me there."

Ryouga inclines his head to acknowledge. "How come I never met you at nationals?"

"Mm, what junior high class?"

Ryouga thinks. "'14."

"Different divisions. I was class of '15..."

Ryouga tells him about placing in top four at the national tournament at fourteen, then getting banned from the leagues for cheating. He thinks Vector might appreciate that sort of thing; is gratified when Vector laughs and says he should've cut the surveillance camera cords before he peeked.

"Shoulda, coulda, woulda," Ryouga says, and is saved from having to change the subject when Vector’s phone buzzes on the counter and a message scrolls across the screen.

 **Yuuma  
** _Shingetsu on your way home could you pick up…_

The rest of the message is cut off at the side. Vector sees Ryouga looking, picks up his phone and turns it face-down. "I can't spend the night, so I won't waste any more of your time," he says, and pays for his drinks and leaves.

As Ryouga picks up his own tab and then his coat, he thinks, he hadn't minded.

 

* * *

 

Vector doesn't talk about work, and between the way he dresses and his initial,choice of meeting place, Ryouga had half-convinced himself that Vector works on a high floor in one of the glass skyscrapers in Heartland’s financial district or something similarly awful. So it’s strange to run into him restocking a shelf in the megamart that occupies the whole second floor of Heartland's downtown mall. He looks very different in a work shirt and khaki pants in place of boots and leather jacket and eyeliner, but the hair colour is just as obnoxious anywhere.

Vector freezes when he sees Ryouga, but recovers quickly. "Ah, Nasch— what a coincidence! Can I help you find something...?"

It's completely different from his usual demeanor and it throws Ryouga for a loop, “Er—“

Vector’s coworker—young guy, styled hair, pink bangs— is eyeing them curiously, and when it becomes clear Ryouga isn’t going to play along Vector steps in between them to cover the pause. "Ah, just stopping by, was it, Nasch? Drinks Thursday night? Sure, see you then—"

Pink bangs guy stares. "Oh, so you're Shingetsu's friend?"

Vector drags Ryouga to the checkout counters to ring up the laundry detergent, shoves the bag into Ryouga's hands, and forcibly escorts Ryouga from the store.

 

* * *

 

 

"Is 'Shingetsu' a first name or a last name?"

“Last name.” The sports bar is noisy and Vector has to lean in to reply. “My first name is Rei, written like the number. Yours?”

Ryouga doesn’t say he has no idea how to write Barian numbers. "Ryouga."

"Last name?" Vector presses.

Ryouga weighs the pros and cons of telling the truth. "Kamishiro."

Vector's eyes narrow. “Like the company?”

“… yeah, like that,” Ryouga says tightly.

Vector considers that, then changes the subject. “Can I borrow your phone?”

Ryouga eyes him warily.

Vector shrugs, pulls over a napkin instead; writes something down and slides it over. “Yuuma’s number. From the store, pink hair. He said you were cute. Just passing it on.”

“You have his number memorized?”

Vector shrugs again. "Emergency contact. We share a house." His handwriting is narrow and slanting, the glyphs of Yuuma's name neat. Ryouga tucks the napkin into his jacket pocket. Later he’ll snap a photo before he tosses it in the trash.

 

* * *

 

Ryouga makes a point to do his groceries at that supermarket after that, just to put Vector on the spot. Exchanges greetings with Yuuma or glares with Vector, depending on which of them has a shift that day, and if Yuuma asks Vector uncomfortable questions then Vector never says a thing about it.

A few weeks later Yuuma asks Ryouga to dinner 'because me and Vector always end up at the same five places when we go out to eat', and Ryouga agrees because microwaved dinners get very boring very quickly, and shows them to the corner ramen store two streets down from the sports bar without mentioning he used to work there. He hasn’t been back since he left the job ‘for greener pastures’; it's under different management now and the faces are all new, so no one remembers him, but the layout of the tables are still the same. Ryouga grabs menus from the stack in the holder over the door, hands one to Vector while Yuuma picks out a booth.

Over dinner conversation is light; Yuuma calls Vector 'Shingetsu', and their elbows knock under the table when Yuuma leans in to steal ingredients out of his soup, and Vector laughs and lets him. Vector seems different when Yuuma is around: kinder, gentler, smiles more. Seems comfortable with his lot, just generally.

It's not really the sort of outlook on life one would expect from someone who drinks to the point of alcohol poisoning every fortnight. Not really the Vector Ryouga is used to, whose resting face is a scowl, who carries a pocketknife he knows how to use and who angles his chin at people like he's itching for a fight.

Ryouga considers the way Vector glances his way when Yuuma uses his name, the one Ryouga wasn't supposed to know. Remembers that first disastrous year of business school, father sitting him down with an ultimatum, the 94 texts from Rio that still sit in his old phone unopened. Remembers that living up to someone else's expectations, and being able to live with oneself, are two very different things.

Yuuma and Ryouga split a plate of dessert, something sweet and warm and sticky that Vector pulls a face at and refuses to try. At the end of the meal Ryouga walks out of the store with hands stuffed in pockets out of the cool night air; takes the opposite way from Yuuma and Vector and thinks: this is all right.

 

* * *

 

Vector still borrows clothes every time he stays over, like he needs the laundry money or something. Ryouga resents the sentiment more than he resents the logistics— he outgrew the stupid pajamas years ago, anyway. "Are you and Yuuma—"

"Together?" Vector snorts. "No. I have enough decency not to. Not while we're. This."

 _Not enough decency to not hog the covers and take up more than your share of the bed in someone else's house_ , Ryouga thinks. Not enough decency to give this non-relationship a name— though Ryouga is guilty of that himself, would rather lie to coworkers and friends about shutting himself up Thursday nights playing video games than admit to—this. "Does he know?"

"Bit hard to live with someone and disappear once every couple weeks and have them not notice, don't you think?"

"And he's fine with it?"

"I _just_ said we weren't dating."

Ryouga considers that. "Would you want to?"

Vector's face twists. "No. And stop dragging him into this."

He rolls over, taking the covers with him, and Ryouga gets the hint and lets him have them.

 

* * *

 

Autumn wears on, pale sunlight of one week shading into overcast skies the next. The women in Ryouga's office start wearing longer skirts, higher boots, and there are coats draped over the back of every office chair. The sun is lower in the sky every day Ryouga leaves the building; he threads his briefcase over his wrist, stuffs his hands in his pockets as he walks through the open-air car park.

7.09 p.m. on Wednesday the seventh of September, driving down the expressway linking Heartland's business district to the residential areas, Ryouga looks out the windshield at the gibbous moon in the sky. Three years ago in mid-autumn, Thomas Arclight left Heartland for some foreign university, and Durbe left too that spring. Rio has been gone for even longer, since the day after they both turned sixteen; she went somewhere in North America to get her education done early and then she decided to stay there, and the next time she returns to Heartland City it will likely be to take over the family business.

Everyone is gone, and left Kamishiro 'Wash-up' Ryouga in Heartland City with a dead-end desk job that pays the bills, and while it’s not quite as shitty as washing dishes out the back of a street ramen store the way it was when he first started doing this it's not great, either—

He pulls into the lot outside his apartment complex and puts the car in park. Greets the security guard as he walks into the building; takes the two flights of stairs, unlocks his front door, pushes it open to the dark living room. The thought of spending the next five hours on his gaming server screaming obscenities into his headset makes him slightly sick, so he logs onto the dueling network for the first time in years instead.

Wins four, loses three, draws one. He drops his foldable keyboard back on his bedside table and stares up at the dark ceiling, the fan slowly turning; recites the Xyz Numbers backwards by name as he tries to fall asleep.

On the bedside table, his phone buzzes. He unplugs it and picks it up off the nightstand, reads the name of the sender— didn't need to, because who else would it be at this hour of the morning— and doesn't read the message. Fires back _it's fucking 2.03 am,_ gets a reply almost immediately, _so tonight,_ _yes or no?_

 _yes,_ Ryouga taps into the touchscreen with more force than necessary. He briefly wonders if somewhere across the city Vector is also doing this— holding his smartphone over his head, hand already cramping as he types out the reply, eyes narrowed against the glare of the screen.

Tries not to think too much about the fact that Vector's stupid texts actually make him feel better.

He plugs his phone back into the charger, puts it back facedown on the nightstand, and falls backwards onto his pillow. Closes his eyes, and wakes to cold morning light streaming through open blinds.

 

 

 


	4. another way to lie

 

 

 

**October, 2023**

 

7 p.m. in the middle of autumn, the sun has long sunk below the horizon, and the half-moon in the sky is hidden by clouds and the tall buildings of downtown Heartland. Tonight, the evening air is cold and thick with the promise of rain. Ryouga layers a heavy pea coat over a vest and shirt, and as he walks the two blocks from the train station he turns up his collar against the autumn chill that bites at his face, and looks at the ground to avoid the white glare from the streetlamps lining the road.

He runs into Vector just outside the bar’s double doors; Vector has kept the fleece-lined jacket, added a scarf and knit cap and high boots with metal ornamentation. Behind layers and layers of faded red fluffy material, he looks smaller and younger but no less abrasive. "Good weather, isn't it?" he asks in greeting, with hands stuffed in pockets and cheeks pink with cold beneath the scarf, and Ryouga doesn't try to argue.

The bar is emptier than usual that evening, and as time and conversation wears on Vector eyes the sports game on the screen behind the counter as he sips from his purple-coloured drink.

"Family?" Ryouga asks over the rim of his own glass, leaning close so he can be heard over the music drifting overhead.

"Pa took off when I was a kid, haven't talked to Ma in months. No siblings." Vector puts his empty glass down on the counter, gets the bartender’s attention to ask for another. "Pet rabbit, long time ago. You?"

"Don't see dad and mom much either. Twin sister, overseas for business. We kept fish. They never lived long."

Vector murmurs assent. It makes Ryouga think of something. "The rabbit, did it have floppy ears?"

"Mm. How'd you know?"

"You draw them like that."

"Oh. Yeah, I do." Vector laughs. "Hey, Nasch. Don't take this the wrong way, but, are you really that Kamishiro?"

"Like the company?" Ryouga echoes.

Vector nods.

"Yes. But I'm disinherited and my sister won't look at you twice, so if you're after the money, don't bother."

Vector shakes his head. "Nah, that's not why I asked. But it figures. What the hell did you do?"

"More like what the hell I didn’t do. Ask me again when I'm sober."

"It's not that bad, you know," Vector says quietly. "Someone told me that when you hit the ground, there's nowhere to go but up."

A clink in the distance as the bartender drops a glass into the sink. Ryouga snorts. "Who the hell spews that kinda bullshit?"

"Yuuma."

"Oh." Then, "That guy, he's a good egg."

"I know."

"Eh, Vector."

He looks up. "Mm?"

"What do you really want to do, if you could?"

"If I could...?" Vector twists the cord of his phone charm around his fingers, and Ryouga watches the motion.  "Go back to school. Say sorry to —" he thinks a moment— "four people. Ask Yuuma out."

"You said—"

"I lied, okay?"

Ryouga nods. Vector is watching him for a reaction and he tugs at the collar of his jacket; it's too cold in here. "Me— maybe I'll go home."

Vector laughs harshly; picks up his almost-untouched drink and drains it like it's nothing but fruit juice. "To pipe dreams, eh?"

Ryouga makes a wry noise of assent, picks up his own glass of tap beer and follows suit.

(Vector likes his drinks flavoured, peach and strawberry like his chapstick. Ryouga tried it once; the sugary taste of fruit fizz had completely covered the taste of alcohol, and when Ryouga asked Vector had just said, "Well, alcohol tastes like shit, doesn't it?")

Later that evening Vector falls asleep in the cab, face nestled into Ryouga's left shoulder. Ryouga thinks about _once you hit the ground, there's no way to go but up_ , and then he taps the back of the driver's seat and asks him to turn around. Calls Yuuma and asks him to give the cabbie his address, then gets out and catches the train back to his own apartment.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

At the end of October, Rio visits Heartland for a management summit. Ryouga meets her at the airport, helps her with her bags and then takes her to the fanciest place he knows for dinner. Over small servings of food on plates that take up too much space, conversation meanders on: weather, current events and recent movies, like they’re strangers instead of siblings. They spent every waking moment of their childhood together, but Rio Kamishiro who sits across from him now with curled hair and painted nails is someone he no longer knows.

She’s doing well, as everyone always knew she would.

"And what about you?" she asks, once Ryouga has run out of topics to deflect her with.

“The same, the same,” he replies. She asks about work, mutual friends, and then, cautiously, about Durbe. Ryouga answers honestly that he doesn’t know, and hasn’t since three years ago when that guy left, but he’s sure that guy’s doing well wherever he is.

The evening passes away quickly, and by the time he sees Rio back to the hotel and then drives all the way home, the day's laundry has been sitting in his dryer for the whole workday and then the whole evening. Ryouga picks through the rumpled mass of fabric; tosses Vector’s stupid striped socks into a separate pile from his own with some annoyance, and has the sudden thought that it is still way less tedious than sorting Durbe’s shirts used to be.

He thinks, he is honestly glad that that guy had the sense to leave. Then he stops thinking about it, and bags the socks with the rest of the stuff Vector left behind. He’ll return it the next time they meet.  

 

* * *

 

 

 

Vector says, with the side of his face pressed into Ryouga’s arm, “Why’d you send me home, that day?”

Over time, Ryouga figured out that the later at night it is, the softer Vector gets. 11:39 p.m., curled up on top of Ryouga’s sheets and bundled in Ryouga’s old pyjamas with his hair gel washed out— he’s almost the way he is around Yuuma, but not quite. “You seemed like you needed the rest,” Ryouga replies.

“I did,” Vector says, and pulls away slightly to look Ryouga in the eye. "But we have an agreement."

“You didn’t want to stay, did you?” Ryouga says quietly.

“No, but—“

"You don't owe me anything."

Vector eyes him. "You don’t do things of the kindness of your heart. What do you want?"

"I really don't want anything," Ryouga repeats. Thinks that maybe that's his problem. lack of ambition, lack of goals, lack of — everything.

Vector considers that, then murmurs assent and curls into a warm ball at Ryouga's side. Ryouga watches the mop of dyed hair that smells faintly of strawberry, and a strange sort of warmth rises in his chest; he doesn’t know what Vector is thinking, and he doesn’t care. He tugs the covers over Vector's shoulders, and then turns over and tries to go to sleep himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Internet cafés keep late hours, and in recent weeks Ryouga has wasted more evenings than he will admit on the dueling network playing game after game after game against people whose handles he doesn't remember. Tonight his opponent is some guy who lives on the east coast and runs Photons and whom Ryouga thinks he might have met on the dueling circuit when they both were teenagers. But neither of them ask about it, and it hangs in the silence as the timer ticks down.

Nearly 11pm. Ryouga draws another card he doesn't need, swears under his breath; the later he stays, the colder it gets outside and the worse it will be when he finally decides to leave.

Beside the keyboard, his phone buzzes. He picks it up to see who it is, then slides a finger across the screen. “Kamishiro.”

“It's me," Vector says, staticky over the bad connection. "I know it’s late to be asking, but can you give me a lift home?”

“Now?” Ryouga checks the clock at the corner of the display. "Are the trains not running?”

“Long day, late shift, bad night to go back on my own." Something in his tone sets Ryouga on edge. "Yes or no? I need to call someone else if you can’t.”

Ryouga rubs at his temples and closes out of the browser window. “Fine. It’s on the way." It isn’t, but Vector doesn't ask favours without good reason. “What’s Yuuma doing that’s so important he can’t—“

“I didn’t ask him.”

“But you asked me?”

“Yes,” Vector deadpans. Then, softer, “Thank you.”

The line goes dead.

As Ryouga passes the counter he considers asking for a refund for the remaining time, then doesn't bother.

The mall where Vector works is thirteen minutes away by car. This late on a weeknight the highways of Heartland City are deserted, and Ryouga turns down the radio as the trees that line the divider in the road flash by.

Ryouga's hands are freezing on the wheel by the time he pulls into the drop-off point. Vector is perched on the railing, hands in pockets and chin tucked into his scarf against the cold. There's tension strung tight in every line of his body as he slides into the passenger seat. The wheel vibrates under Ryouga’s hands as Vector settles properly and fastens the seatbelt, and Ryouga wonders how that guy managed to make it through the day.

He turns to Ryouga and says, "Can we go somewhere else first?"

“Where?”

“Anywhere’s fine.”

Ryouga nods, and pulls out of the lot. "The pier, is that okay?"

Vector murmurs assent.

On the long stretch of silent road Vector watches the streetlights pass by, his face pale and intent in the glass. Ryouga makes a detour for petrol; at the kiosk he goes to get a pack of alcohol, returns to find that Vector has paid for the tank.

He drives to Heartland Pier, and walks Vector the half mile out to the docks where he and Rio used to go. And then, trying not to feel very stupid, he braces himself on the guard rail and yells into the expanse over the sea. It's something he and Rio used do when they were younger and still lived within walking distance, and could get pissed off at things like school and family squabbles and dressing up for dinners for their parents to show off. He hasn't come here since she left. But the ocean doesn't forget.

Ryouga curses Thomas Arclight in every language he knows, and some of the more creative constructions make Vector laugh. "Who's Thomas?"

"A bastard."

Vector cracks a smile. "I gathered."

He turns to the sea and follows Ryouga's lead; Ryouga can’t tell what Vector is yelling because it’s all in Barian, but it sounds like he's wanted to say it for a long, long time.

When he's done, Ryouga cracks open the beer cans and hands one to him. Waits for him to drink and then says, as evenly as he can, “You gonna tell me what got you so on edge you can’t catch a train home?”

Vector doesn't look at him. “Mm. Run-in with someone I’d rather not run into.”

“What’s their beef? Money?”

“Not exactly.” A pause. “The Barian Lords, hear of them before?”

Ryouga nods. “Yeah. You got in trouble with them?"

"I was one of them."

He says it evenly, but Ryouga actually has to put the beer can down. "Shit, man." Thinks about asking _how the fuck did you get out_ , then figures he might be better off not knowing.

Vector lets out a short laugh; turns around and braces himself against the rail and looks up at the sky. He’s very steady on his feet for somebody who’s had that much to drink. “Hey, Nasch. What are you thinking?”

Ryouga is thinking about being seven or eight and playing video games with a boy his age on the comfortable couches in an executive office, half-listening in to the boy's father negotiating with Ryouga's for a pay advance to keep the Lords off his back and the pig blood and spray paint off his family's front door. “I knew you were shitty, but I didn’t think you were that shitty,” he says.

It’s the completely wrong thing to say, and Vector's face twists. “You’re honest,” he says. "I appreciate that." He crumples the can and chucks it in the water.

"Does Yuuma know?"

"Bits and pieces. Not all of it.” Vector looks at the still surface of the water where the can had landed, the aluminium lost from sight beneath dark water, then turns to Ryouga again. “It's late, and it's cold out here. Can we go?"

He watches Ryouga carefully, like he expects Ryouga to refuse, or even to run. And that is indeed what Ryouga should do. But Ryouga has also been sleeping with the guy for months without knowing any of this, and even now that he knows—strangely, nothing really has changed.

—Apathy is a bitch. Or, more likely, it is the alcohol talking. “You gonna tell me where you live now?”

"Give me your phone," Vector replies.

Ryouga slides the device from his pocket, flips to his maps app and hands it over. Vector types in something and hands it back, and Ryouga leaves the app open in his hand as he leads the way back to his car, the light from the screen illuminating the grass behind them.

Vector falls asleep on the way back to the sound of static on the radio, head lolling in the passenger seat. He doesn’t wake even when Ryouga pulls to a stop in the drop-off point in the apartment complex. The lift in the complex is out of order, so Ryouga carries him the four flights of stairs to the second floor, and hands him off to a bewildered Yuuma.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. you're full of shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this fic exists just for the image of ryouga driving in shitty weather and cursing vector the whole way, and sincerity is fake)

 

 

**December, 2023**

 

In early winter it is dark out when Ryouga heads out to work, and dark when he returns, and every morning he pulls his apartment door shut behind him with gloved hands and tucks his chin into his scarf, and covers the distance between the multi-storey parking lot and the lifts in his work building as fast as he can.

The first week Vector didn't text, Ryouga didn't notice, and spent an uncomfortable hour at the ramen shop across the street from work with colleagues from the accounting and finance departments before remembering that ordinarily on Thursdays he begs off work dinners in order to be somewhere else. Then once became weekly became a month became habit, and somewhere along the way the group figured out he is not in fact a new accounting hire but from another department in the same company, but even so, very little changed. Conversation goes easily, small talk and work talk alike. Many of them even choose the same section of the building to park in, and after the meal when the bill has been settled, it is easy to fall in step beside them.

Now, walking through the parking lot, the group gradually thins as they find their respective vehicles. At the last junction the man called Ginji turns to Ryouga and says, "You know, I wish you worked in this department. I think you'd do well." Then he makes his goodbyes and departs.

As Ryouga turns around and walks to where his own car is parked, he is still thinking about it.

The last he heard from Vector had been the phone call, a little more than a month ago. By the lights inside the car Ryouga reads the timestamp again; remembers saying _you owe me nothing_ , and thinks that he has been very, very stupid.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Early Sunday morning, the downtown mall is deserted as the shops just begin to open. Ryouga stops at the supermart for groceries and finds Yuuma stocking shelves; they exchange greetings, and Ryouga lingers, and when Yuuma finally stops checking canned food and looks at him curiously he clenches his hands in his pockets. "Is Shingetsu here?"

Yuuma blinks. "Just say Vector, it's what his friends call him anyway." A pause. "Great timing. He's off work for a few days."

"Oh," Ryouga says.

Yuuma bites his lip, then says that he can't talk now but would Ryouga like to go over for dinner since Shingetsu isn't here and there's too much food in the fridge?

He's looking at Ryouga very intently, and Ryouga nods.

 

 

 

The elevator in Yuuma's apartment complex is still out of order, so Ryouga walks the four flights with a vegetable dish from the downstairs restaurant in hand. In Yuuma's doorway there is a fluffy carpet and separate racks for boots and shoes; the living room is well-lit, furnished with two couches and a coffee table. It isn't covered in clothes and opened envelopes and empty grocery bags, and in the open plan kitchen Yuuma reaches for clean mugs on a shelf.

The two adjoined rooms to the side are both dark, their doors cracked open. "Is Vector home?"

"Mm, he moved out last week," Yuuma says, and pulls open a cupboard. "New guy gets here tomorrow. Green, white, or red tea?"

Ryouga freezes and picks at random. "Where'd he go?"

"Didn't say," Yuuma yells over the boil of the electric kettle, and Ryouga doesn't ask again.

Over dinner, conversation goes easily. Tsukumo Yuuma grew up in Heartland City; never went to university, but wants to go back to school eventually, and is working retail to get by in the meantime. He has family in the area, but they live too far from work so he looked for a place of his own; this apartment is subsidized because Yuuma's sister is in the civil service, so if he and a roommate split rent half then he can make ends meet just fine.

The tea on the coffee table has gone cold; Ryouga has talked to Tsukumo Yuuma for about two hours, and already he knows more about him than he knows about Vector. He can’t picture Vector dragging Yuuma out to a dodgy sports bar like the sort Ryouga frequents; Yuuma’s better suited to brightly lit corner coffee shops on weekend afternoons, conversations about travel and work and family, or what movie is playing at the theater around the corner.

Absurdly, Ryouga thinks that that's just fine.

Later Ryouga thanks Yuuma for his hospitality as he picks up coat and scarf and hat, and Yuuma smiles as he sees him to the door.  "You’re all right, Ryouga. Drive safely."

The curve of his smile is familiar, and Ryouga thinks, it’s a lot like how Vector smiles when he’s being Shingetsu Rei. Maybe that’s where Vector learned it.

 

 

 

 

Later, Ryouga tries to look up how to write zero in Barian. Spends fifteen minutes picking through a dictionary of gibberish, then decides it's not worth it and goes on Yuuma's social media page instead. Yuuma's profile is plastered with pictures, vacation photos or scenic shots of the city; Ryouga has never seen some of these places before, and he has lived in Heartland City all his life.

There's nothing at all there about anyone called Shingetsu Rei.

On the table, his phone buzzes and almost falls off the table.

 **vector  
** _yuuma said you stopped by?_

Ryouga taps out, _I did. What about it?_

_Please don't do that again._

A pause. The next text is an address, followed by, _i'm out here for three more days. stop by?_

Ryouga leaves it until he is about to turn in for the night. Then he picks his phone back up from the bedside table and reads Vector's last correspondence again; two lines, black text on grey. He checks the address (forty-odd kilometres, on the very outskirts of Heartland) and the weekend's weather forecast (90 per cent chance of thunderstorms), then types back, _Ok._

 

 

* * *

 

 

11:03 a.m. on Saturday, an hour before the agreed time. It has been raining all morning, and the gray clouds massed overhead make the sky look almost like night. Ryouga turns up the windshield wipers,  pulls out of his apartment's parking lot. The radio is tuned to the same classic rock Ryouga has listened to since high school, but now the sound of drums is drowned out by the rain outside. He reaches for the volume dial, finds the tuning knob instead. A burst of static and the radio lands on news, the cadence of the broadcaster's voice lost to the sound of thunder.

The entrance to the expressway appears ahead and Ryouga changes lanes. If he heads home now he can still make the guild's fortnightly dungeon crawl; they are not company he likes, but they are company he is comfortable with. They're fine with his anger issues, his foul language; they can't tell him from the next teenager looking for a hit and they don't care.

His fingers tighten on the wheel, numb from the cold of the rain falling in sheets against the window. He is thinking about Vector's shoulders under his hands, the taste of his own blood, Vector's teeth sharp like splinters. Durbe asked, the day he moved out, if Ryouga had ever in his life wanted something enough to reach out and grasp it.

He floors the gas pedal and turns onto the highway.

 

 

 

The address Vector sent is an unassuming one-storey affair, nested in a row of identical houses. Ryouga checks the number on the mailbox and then pulls into the driveway; spends two and a half minutes contemplating the rain pouring down outside, then opens the car door and his umbrella and makes his way up the footpath. Stands on the doorstep with the rain soaking his canvas shoes; lets himself feel very stupid, then punches the doorbell with one wet hand.

A minute passes to the patter of rain on the umbrella's top side as Ryouga thinks about getting back in the car and going home after all, and then Vector answers the door in bunny slippers and a hideous pink sweater the colour of Yuuma’s hair, face scrunching against the rain spray. He blinks twice. “Nasch,” he says, and stands aside to let Ryouga in.

The inside of the house is warm and smells of something nice. Vector disappears into the kitchen, slippers making no noise on the wood-paneled floor, and there is the sound of the microwave turning on. Ryouga closes his umbrella and stands it by the door;  trying not to drip all over the wood-paneled floor; slides his sopping shoes and socks under the rack by the window, and sets his raincoat by the door.

Vector returns with a small hand towel, which he offers Ryouga. It's warm and dry. "Tea?” he asks.

Ryouga nods.

He turns and heads into the kitchen again, and from that direction comes the clink of tableware and the sound of a boiler dispensing water while Ryouga dries his hands and hair the best he can. Thirty seconds later Vector returns with two mugs of something steaming and smelling of apples.  Ryouga gratefully wraps his hands around the warm porcelain, breathes in the scent of spiced tea.

Vector waves him to the couch and sets his own mug down on the coffee table, and Ryouga follows suit. Outside, the rain is still pouring down in sheets; Ryouga follows Vector's eyes to the window, and can't see anything. "Terrible weather."

Vector glances at him. "Oh? I think it's fine."

"You didn't just drive forty miles in it, did you?"

"I didn't," Vector says.

Ryouga hates the bastard, he really does. "Nice house."

"It's not mine." Pastel walls, soft rugs, plastic flowers in a vase on the table. Vector regards him a moment longer. "Ma's. She's away and said I could stay for a couple weeks."

"And then what?"

Vector's expression is hidden behind the rim of his cup. "What did Yuuma say?"

"—Nothing. Yuuma said nothing."

Vector regards him a moment longer. "School. The semester starts next year. My grades weren't bad and I'm still eligible for reduced fees, so I reapplied."

"Heartland?"

Vector shakes his head and names a place Ryouga only knows by association from high school applications he didn't take seriously; middlingly prestigious and not local. "You didn't tell Yuuma?"

Thinks he might know why: the fear of failure, or making promises one cannot keep. But Vector is still watching him over the rim of the cup, and Ryouga takes another sip of tea to cover the silence. It burns.

"No. I've gotten him mixed up in my business long enough, haven't I?"

"... So you're telling me?"

"I like you," Vector says, flat, like he's reciting from memory. "And Yuuma says to stop throwing away good things I don't think I deserve, which in the end just means losing out due to my own stupidity."

"You're full of shit, you know?"

Vector stands with mug in hand and turns in the direction of the kitchen again. "You don't have to stick around if you don't want to."

Something in Ryouga snaps.

"Sure." To hell with politeness and to hell with caution. "Tell me to leave. After I drove an hour and forty miles in a fucking thunderstorm and it's still raining out." He stands and goes over to the window. Outside, the maroon shape of his car is seven feet from Vector's door, outline distorted through the rain. "You don't even have a goddamn porch."

Vector blinks. "That's not—" He cuts himself off and disappears into the kitchen. Ryouga waits. When Vector returns his cup is steaming again, and he has regained his composure. "You're right, I don't," he says.

He follows Ryouga to the window. Outside, rain taps the panes and sheets down against the glass, drowning out the sound of everything else. Vector is standing close, and in the proximity his breath is warm against the back of Ryouga's neck. "Then," he says, "I guess you'll just have to stay.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
